The Week I Ruined My Life

by Caroline Grace-Cassidy

  He finds half a packet of poppyseed Ryvita and sets about making his snack.

  ‘It was a joke … I’m sorry to hear that, Donal’s a nice guy,’ I say.

  ‘He is. He doesn’t get her though, ya know what accountants are like?’ His voice is muffled from the inside of the fridge again.

  ‘Did you not buy ham?’ He pops out again. Like a puppet on a string.

  ‘I did, but I’ve already used it on the lunches for tomorrow. I’m ahead of myself this evening. What doesn’t he get about Maia, so?’ I continue my job at the sink.

  ‘He only went and bought a brand new 4-litre Range Rover!’ Colin tells me, aghast.

  Colin is removing items from the fridge and putting them back. His mutterings tell me he’s unhappy with the snack choice currently available to him.

  ‘Did you use the whole packet of ham?’ he contorts his face. Stubble this evening, I notice for the first time. I wonder why he didn’t shave this morning. Colin is a clean-shaven type of guy, especially in the workplace.

  ‘I just got two slices of premium ham at the deli for the kids’ lunches.’ I leave the glasses to drip dry.

  ‘That’s crazy, Ali, you would get twelve slices of Denny’s ham for the same price.’ He extends his hands out to his sides.

  ‘I’m not buying processed ham any more, Colin. I don’t like it, not after all those allegations about it.’ I refer to a study that showed processed meats and smoked meats to be dangerous.

  ‘Like we have the money to believe one-sided studies, Ali,’ he snorts. ‘It makes me laugh, I have been telling you all about the carbon footprint on our planet for years and you don’t listen – suddenly a slice of ham is carcinogenic and you are in an all out panic!’ Smacking the hands now down by his sides.

  What’s the point in retaliating? I try to change the subject.

  ‘A brand new Range Rover huh? He must be doing all right for himself, so,’ I half chuckle.

  ‘See, that’s the fucking worst thing about these arseholes who don’t care for our planet, who suck the air out of our planet: people like you think’ – he puts on a squeaky dumb high-pitched girl’s voice and dances his fingers together

  – ‘Ooohhh, look big fancy car, what a big man he is … I mean, how do you think Maia felt when he pulled into her driveway in that monstrosity? She is a manager of Devlin Design’s, she was sickened, how could she be with this guy?’

  ‘We all have shit about our partners we don’t like but we have to put up with. It’s a Range Rover, not a sawn-off shotgun, Colin.’ I’ve had enough.

  ‘Finished, Daddy.’ Mark is back with the cutest chocolaty face. I smile at him as he pads across the kitchen in his tiny bare feet.

  ‘I’m a teeny bit cross you didn’t eat your dinner, love.’ I bend and wipe his face with the tea towel. The chocolate is stuck hard so I lick my fingers, wet the area and wipe again. I’m not cross at him. I am cross at his silly father for showing him chocolate before his dinner. Idiotic.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy … I love you, do you still love me?’ He raises his arms high above his head to me.

  I want to pick him up. I want to pick him up. I want to pick him up.

  I can’t. It will for sure start a real row even though Colin scooped him up earlier. One rule for one.

  I pat his head.

  Colin sits at the table with his cheese on poppyseed Ryvita. I dump an entire pot of stew in the bin, and hold my foot on the pedal as it releases slowly, its previous clamorousness denied. There is no point in keeping it for tomorrow. No one will eat it.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ says Colin, ‘how about we all watch something together, turn off all electronic devices? I could make a big bowl of my buttered popcorn? We all need some family time.’

  ‘Yes!’ Mark skids across the kitchen floor on his knees.

  He’s just given him a Creme Egg, but say nothing.

  ‘Do you want to pop up and have a bath first, Ali?’ he asks me. I recognise he is trying to please me and I follow suit. Maybe we can salvage this night after all.

  ‘No, thanks, Colin, it’s OK. I’ll light the fire, shall I? Maybe we can all get into our cosies?’ I am trying too.

  ‘Now that sounds great, love. Let me finish this and I’ll get Mark changed. So what’s yer news, buddy? When is the next training session with the Ranelagh Rovers?’ Colin says happily to Mark as Jade struts in.

  ‘By the way, Dad, Mom had a party last night.’ She puts her foot on the pedal bin, bins her chocolate egg wrapper and gently lowers the lid. It does not bang.

  ‘Huh?’ Ryvita pieces crumble from Colin’s mouth onto the table.

  Balls.

  ‘I didn’t have a party, love, what are you talking about? Corina came by …’ I huff the words out. It’s like someone just kick-started a motorbike in my chest.

  ‘And that man was here too,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah … and Owen from work dropped by.’ Please don’t let me blush. I busy myself wiping the fallen crumbs of food with a wet cloth. They stick. I shake them into the bin and don’t let the lid bang. My heart’s racing.

  ‘Owen, dropped by our house?’ he says slowly.

  ‘And that Corina one was drinking out of your good wine glass from Waterford that Maia got you for your Christmas present last year, the big bubbly one.’

  My daughter digs me a deeper hole. I know she is not being malicious, how could she be? How could she know her ‘mom’ wants to have a rodeo ride on the man she works with? Realllly badly … reeeeeaaaaallly, reeeeaaaallllly badly.

  ‘What was going on?’ He puts the self-made snack down and pushes back his chair and folds his arms staring at me as I potter around in a panic.

  There is only one thing to do here. I go on the defensive.

  ‘Jesus, what? Nothing! Corina called over for a glass of wine. Owen dropped in the itinerary for Amsterdam as he’s away until the trip. It wasn’t a party!’ The kids are staring at me now too. I see the look on their faces: they know this is the start of another fight. Four alert eyes.

  I’m way too defensive and his eyes are now blazing.

  ‘Kids, go into the other room,’ he demands.

  ‘But I thought you said we were having family night with buttered popcorn?’ Mark’s little face drops.

  ‘Another night, Mark. I’ll be in in a minute. We can watch the end of Toddlers & Tiaras OK, Jade?’ I say, but she doesn’t look back at me.

  They are only too familiar with the tone of their parents’ pre-fight, and both leave the kitchen immediately and pull the door. I hope Jade comforts Mark when we fight, I really do. The door clicks shut.

  ‘I don’t want either of those crazy fuckers in my house when I’m away, got it?’ he rages at me.

  ‘No … I don’t “got it”. It’s my house too.’ He can go fuck himself.

  ‘I pay the mortgage, I pay the bills—’

  ‘Oh, Colin …’ I rest against the sink, my arms stretched out, gripping the countertop. ‘When are you going to stop throwing this at me? I can’t take much more of it.’ I scratch my head.

  ‘Truth hurts.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I hiss, grinding my teeth at him.

  ‘Such a pretty face, Ali...’

  We glare at one another.

  ‘So the painter fella called in at what time?’ He stands up now, pacing the grey slate flooring.

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t clock him in.’ My heart is steeplechase racing in my chest.

  ‘Well, Jade saw him, so was it teatime?’ The question is patronising.

  ‘No … Jade was in bed. She came down.’ I tell the truth. He’ll find this out anyway and my anger is carrying me through this conversation.

  ‘Right, so he called in here late … Knew I was away, did he?’ Colin examines the nails on his left hand. He manicures them sometimes, I know he does, but he won’t ever admit it.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ I lie to him.

  ‘Show me the itinerary he left then.’ He holds his hand out.


  ‘It’s back at work,’ again I lie, like a butterfly. Easy-breezy words fluttering out of my mouth.

  ‘Work? Yeah, right,’ he spits the words in a laugh at me.

  ‘Yeah, work,’ I spit it back.

  ‘That’s what you do, is it?’

  If he’s going there, he really wants a full-blown row. I won’t subject the kids to this.

  ‘I’m going to bed, Colin. You can put the kids up tonight.’ I push my weight off the countertop with my outstretched hands.

  ‘My pleasure. Get lost, liar.’

  ‘No, my pleasure.’ I leave the kitchen.

  * * *

  In a boiling hot coconut-scented bath, trying to drown out my guilty thoughts, I submerged my head under the water for a moment too long. I came up spluttering. The glorious isolation and feeling of being powerless under there was much needed. Drowned out every horrible aspect of my life right now. Drowned out the noise in my head that I am indeed a terrible mother.

  I dry my hair and put on my giraffe pyjamas. My mood-killers, as Colin calls them. Or should I say, as Colin used to call them. My Elizabeth Arden eight-hour cream is another passion killer, so I lash it on liberally. My laptop bag is hanging over the upstairs banister and I take it into the bedroom. They are all laughing and joking downstairs and I feel desperately alone. I feel like everything is entirely my fault, but the reason I am up here is so they don’t hear us fighting. I am trying to protect them for us.

  Removing the laptop, I place it on the side locker as I slide in between the cold sheets and prop my pillow behind my back. I open it and log into my Facebook account. As the site loads, I make a mental note to send a message to Maia about her breakup. I have her number in my phone, and we have texted each other on occasion. I see three little red messages at the bottom of my messenger.

  Well …

  Did you request those adjoining rooms yet?!! ;)

  Owen. All day I have put him out of my head. I knew Corina was right. Not a text nor a call nor an email nor a social media message did I send him. Nor did I check my Facebook all day. The messages he had sent the other night were the last ones we shared. In fact, I was so busy today I enjoyed not having the distraction of him around the building. I had focus.

  At lunch I mingled with some actors from the new Christmas show, Little Red Riding Hood, and I got a load of work done. I’m in the process of trying to coordinate an art event in the centre’s gallery with the local Old Folks Club at the St Andrew’s Resource Centre, as well as trying to get them funding for transport. I have been in to see them about five times now and they are magnificent people. Owen came with me the last time to offer his help to anyone who might want it. Nanny Farrell, who is eighty-five and partially blind, sang out, ‘I mightne be able to see good ya know but, Jaysus, I can feel yer vibe, love.’ Well, we all doubled over laughing. Owen had given her a huge hug, almost lifting her small frail body off the ground and smacked a kiss on her toothless mouth. Ranging from a sprightly seventy to a naughty ninety-eight-year-old, I have commissioned them all, those who are interested, to draw something, anything, with paint, pencil, crayons, chalk, twistables, whatever. I gave them all sorts of supplies and we are going to have an exhibition night in the City Arts Centre on Christmas Eve with mulled wine. Corina is doing the PR for free. We hope to get enough media coverage to help with our campaign to get the Arts Council to fund a new bus for them. Transport is desperately needed. At the moment they rely on relatives and friends to drop them to the club and collect them, and some even spend a chunk of their tiny pensions on taxis, just to get out to see another human face.

  The City Arts Centre is all about helping the community through art. I know my work is important. I didn’t need to defend it to anyone. I didn’t need to prove it. But right now, even more so after that fight with Colin, I welcome Owen’s messages with a warm heart and a terrific tingle up through my spine deep into the base of my neck. Escapism. Owen understands how important the City Arts Centre is to the community and to me.

  He added a .gif of a cartoon guy banging repeatedly on a hotel door.

  I know he’s messing and I laugh as I continue to read.

  Belfast is so beautiful, hadn’t been up here in years. Colette rang me – there’s a residency opening for 6 months at Centre Culturel Irlandais in France.

  I gasp audibly. I panic-read the next bit going from the bottom up. I try to slow my mind down and read it carefully.

  Is he leaving?

  Is he leaving?

  He can’t be leaving?

  Oh my God, he cannot be leaving!

  Be a great opportunity for me to tap into the resources of the CCI and the City of Light as well as being an important means of showcasing Ireland’s dynamic contemporary culture on an international stage. Hark at me!

  He adds a .gif of Boyzone’s first appearance on the Late Late Show. I laugh despite my shock. Keith Duffy in those big red Budweiser braces dancing around like his life depended on it never fails to crease me up in laughter.

  Big application process and deadline end of January, one other thing though, artists must have had at least one solo exhibition work! What do ya know! Tell Corina I want her number after all!

  He adds a winky emoji and a .gif of the movie Manhattan and the famous Woody Allen art gallery scene.

  I don’t want him to go to France!

  I rest my head back against the softness of my goose-feathered pillow. My fingers wiggle over the keys. Downstairs, I hear Colin’s huge pretend laugh. There is no need for him to laugh that loud, he is making sure that I can hear him up here.

  I don’t want you to go to France. I tap-tap-tap the words.

  I linger over the return key then hit it. Enter.

  Sent.

  The little bubble appears: he is reading.

  Why not?

  Coz. Send.

  Coz is not a word never mind an answer, stand in the corner Miss Devlin.

  OK because I’d miss you then. Send.

  Bubble.

  It’s only for 6 months.

  What am I saying?

  It’s a huge opportunity for you I know that. Send.

  The city arts is fantastic but I was only supposed to do a residency. Colette just keeps asking me to stay on. I’m trying to think bigger ya know? If I want to make a living from my art I need to be braver.

  What is it U actually want? Send.

  Bubble.

  To be an artist.

  You are an artist! Send.

  Bubble.

  Not a real one.

  Yes! A very real one. Send.

  Bubble.

  Thanks. You’re so supportive Rose but I know you just want me to draw you like one of my French girls.

  He adds a boat symbol. He needn’t have. I got his poorly written James Cameron/Titanic reference.

  I’ll never let go Jack, unless that is I really need to save myself and there just happens to be a massive door floating by.

  Winky face. Send.

  Bubble.

  I never got that before. I am totally Jack and you are the unsinkable Molly Brown.

  What do I say to that? Is that a joke or a compliment or an innuendo? I’m not sure. It’s so easy to be brave from the comfort of my own bed but I need to rein this is. This is going nowhere safe fast.

  I hear the TV go off and the sighs of unhappy children being sent to bed.

  Have to go, night night. I press send as I gently fold the laptop lid shut, slide it onto the carpet and quietly switch off my lamp. If he does come into this bed tonight, I will be well and truly asleep. Dreaming. Dreaming of another man.

  7

  Wednesday morning. Minus 2 degrees outside. City Arts Centre. My office.

  I’m not quite as snappily dressed as I usually am for work, I admit to myself, as I close my office door. This morning we slept in. I completely forgot to set the bedroom alarm clock. Of course I did. Totally my fault. We were all late and I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedg
e backwards. You know those rushed mornings: your make-up doesn’t blend, the nib breaks off your eyeliner and you cannot find a sharpener, you can’t find the right coloured bra or matching socks, the jeans that you are wearing are too tight underneath, the slide in your hair keeping your fringe out of your eyes has snapped, and no matter how many times you empty your overflowing bag there just isn’t another loose one in there.

  Colin had been furious. He had indeed slept in the bed beside me but I hadn’t heard him getting in. He had pulled the duvet down and screamed me awake.

  ‘It’s after eight, Ali, did you not set the fucking alarm clock? I have a display presentation at nine in Dundalk! Fucking hell! Nice one, thanks!’

  He had dressed by the bed in yesterday’s clothes, which were hung neatly over the wicker chair, and run down the stairs, taking them two by two, grabbed his keys off the glass hall table and straight out the door.

  I was also running late for work and had an important meeting and people waiting on me. Even though sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, nephews, nieces, friends and neighbours had agreed to drop the older club members to the St Andrews Resource Centre for ten o’clock this morning and were returning to collect them at twelve o’clock. Even though necessary medicines had been administered before they left to coincide with the meeting. But my time isn’t as important.

  So it was down to me to get the kids up, breakfasted and dressed, drive them to school, do the whole sign-in-late shit, which drives me potty as it just makes already flustered parents even later! Only then was I allowed to get myself to my work.

  I was so late. When eventually I reached work I ran up to my office and gathered all the stuff from my desk that I needed, mainly the release forms to be signed so that we could legally display the work. God bless Corina, I’d texted her at a red light on the way to the school to see if she might be free this morning to help me out of a massive hole. As usual she had my back. She had got there at ten o’clock for me and she was holding the fort. It was a quarter past ten by the time I looked up at my ticking office clock and dashed back down the stairs.

  Anyway, I am relieved Owen is in Belfast. He usually sees me looking pretty together. My work clothes are normally skinny jeans and a nice shirt teamed with my black suede ankle boots. I sweep my blonde fringe to the left-hand side, it needs a cut. I usually cut it every four weeks but I’ve decided to grow my hair longer. Colin loves short hair on me, which I suppose is why I’ve always had it short.